Reflections in the Mirror
by Finferwen
Summary: When even the moon brands you for your sin and the brightness of your wings is a pretty lie, it’s hard not to hate yourself. [Short, vaguely introspective Raphael one-shot.]


**Reflections in the Mirror**

_Genre:_ Angst/Fluff (someone should really request that as a genre…)

_Rating:_ PG-13 (language, sexual references)

_Type:_ One Shot

_Warnings:_ Kind of Raphael-Barbiel (if you choose to see it that way)

_Summary:_ [Short, vaguely introspective Raphael one-shot.] When even the moon brands you for your sin and the brightness of your wings is a pretty lie, it's hard not to hate yourself.

* * *

It's on nights like this one, where the sky is clear as glass and the stars shine down on his clinic in Yetzirah like diamonds caught in a spotlight, that he hates himself more than usual. He hates a lot of things, actually; mainly petty things, and is more than happy to verbalise on that list in the direction of anybody who'll pay attention. He never admits that he tops his own hate list, though. Not even as he twists his lips in a sad, affected smile and watches with disgust from behind his waves of moonshot hair as his companions melt before him, falling flawlessly for his bullshit one after another. 

It's all bullshit, really - to him, it doesn't even deserve the name of 'lie' or 'facade'. Either of those terms would imply complexity or an effort towards an end, and with a face like his and a put-on voice like velvet dipped in honey, it's so damnably easy to win them over that it doesn't count.

He knows that he used to be beautiful. He also knows that no matter how low he sinks, the shell of his beauty is enough to keep drawing them in and he hates them almost as much as himself for giving in to a stained, filthy creature in the same way he did all that time ago. 

The office is stuffy, reeking of sterility and latex, and the cool zephyr of air which ghosts in the window towards its master convinces him to lift one polished shoe after the other to the sill and hoist himself out into the garden. It's fitting, somehow – Raphael, Greatest of the Virtues and Archangel of Air and Healing sneaking away from work like a common loafer. Deep down a voice whispers to him that he can make up for it all, repent and be pure again, but he hasn't listened to that voice in centuries, won't again tonight, and every time he ignores it the voice becomes fainter.

Something leads him to the seat beside the fountain, and after checking he is actually alone, he sits inelegantly cross-legged and leans out over the still water. The moonlight is especially strong tonight, and he can see the pebbles far beneath the surface through the ghostly image of his own face. So pale and perfect, at least to anyone but himself. He figures he might as well complete the parody of purity by unfolding his wings – he never was one to leave something half-done, after all.

The feathers unfurl just as they always have when he calls, and he stretches them lazily in the crisp night air. Sometimes he wonders why his wings still glow with the radiance they possessed when he was young, newly-appointed to his post and full of lofty ideals. Surely they should be dusty, yellowed, tattered or stained with the blood of the children he's no doubt fathered here and there before some quick research taught him how to prevent it happening, but they're still brighter than Assiah's snow.

He ruffles them slightly, settling them around himself in place of the overcoat he left on his coat stand, and the wind they generate ripples the water of the fountain and distorts his reflection. A small part of him is savagely grateful for that small concession, while another part of him cringes; it's as if Jibrille is angry with him again for his indiscretions and the unsettled water is a manifestation of her fury. 

Poor Jibrille. He always liked her because she hated him for all the right reasons – saw the filth of his carnal acts on the blushing, unrepentant cheeks of her friends and acquaintances and had come to him with a sharp hand for the side of his perfect face.

That night wasn't so very different from this one, and he remembers it distinctly. His office had been the setting, and a new intern had been his company. The woman still lay all but naked on the examination table, half asleep with a crooked grin on her face, seemingly unaware of the smear of blood on her thighs or the enormity of her sin. The air had been thick then, too: a heavy musk of sex and sweat and the faintest hint of the intern's favoured perfume.

He had cast a glance back to the sleeping woman and felt his stomach flip in a mixture of disgust, disappointment and perverse victory. Somehow she wasn't as pretty he'd thought she had been. Just another fool who had fallen for his quick tongue and dusty blue eyes. Quick, sharp footsteps grew louder in the corridor outside, and he hastily tucked his shirt into his unbelted trousers (God only knew where he'd lost _that_) in an attempt to meet his visitor on the other side of his door, before they could catch him with _her_. He managed to rake a hand through his sweaty hair and adopted a hurried expression before he slipped out the door, and ran almost headfirst into Jibrille. She truly was beautiful when she was livid, he'd grant her that.

She had sniffed, a tiny wrinkling of her delicate nose, taken in his disheveled appearance, and slapped him across the cheek with all the force she could muster. Tears of righteous anger streamed from her eyes as she told him he was sinful, but that he could be saved if he'd just _stop it_, and that he had _no right_ to ruin the lives of those women by stealing their purity, and what was _wrong _with him to make him think that way?! An image of Belial and one of her lovers had flickered across his mind's eye, and he'd given Jibrille a rueful little smile. She said he was a disgusting disgrace; he said he knew.

It was on that night as he lay alone in his bed (for once) that he was startled awake from what had been a dreamless sleep by the echo of Jibrille's voice. His body was shaking, covered in a cold sweat, and he barely made it to the bathroom before he heaved violently, as if his stomach was attempting to purge him of his sin. He'd trembled then, still cold and naked and alone, and eventually the trembling had given way to great wracking sobs as he wept for all his foolishness and selfishness and guilt and what he'd once been.

The next day, without the cold moonlight to judge him, he'd gone back to exactly the way he'd been the day before.

But nights like this one…they truly reminded him of just how pathetic he is, and he is powerless to do anything but hate it.

His reflection is still distorted. Jibrille, even though she hasn't spoken a word for centuries, is still right and they both know it. He sighs, and watches the air carry the crystallized droplets of his exhaled breath away from his lips. It's chilly, now. He should have taken his overcoat.

"Raphael-sama."

He barely has time to acknowledge the speaker before a pile of cloth zooms accurately between his wings and lands on top of his head, teetering dangerously on the brink of falling in the fountain.

"It's freezing out here. Why didn't you take a coat?" Barbiel purses her lips and stands a few paces away, arms folded across her waist and obviously ready to leave for the night.

"I haven't been here long, it's not so bad." He offers her a false smile and she instantly recognises it, scowling at him.

"You've been here for almost two hours. Are you trying to make yourself ill?"

He chuckles low in his throat, and a comfortable silence falls between them in which both assume they're in the right. Eventually she sighs and helps him out of his cramped position, holding onto his sleeve and pulling him towards the clinic door.

"Come on, I'll make you some tea." The smile in her voice is genuine, and for a moment he feels guilty all over again.

Barbiel is not Belial. Barbiel is not Jibrille. Barbiel swats at him when he's foolish or lecherous, puts up with his nonsense, manages his work, makes him tea and gets annoyed with him. But for some reason she finds value in his existence and seems to consider him redeemable.

He stops dragging his feet in the gravel and pretends to listen to her when she warns him needlessly about hypothermia and exposure. It is warm back in the building, and he's not alone. 

His face in the mirror is not what it should be, and he knows it. But when he sees himself reflected in this woman's eyes, he can't help but wonder if perhaps there is a speck of hope left for him after all.

* * *

_Endnote:_ Please have mercy. New genre, probably poor characterisation...I'll give you cookies if you don't burn me alive! Yeah, cookies! ...I'm going to go hide under my rock again, now. 


End file.
